


The Face of an Angel

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adoption, Baby, Johnlock in later chapters, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-08 09:25:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been three months, four days, nineteen hours, and counting since Sherlock Holmes died, and John hasn't gotten over him. When Irene Adler arrives at his door with Sherlock's daughter and a plea for John to take her, can he find it in his heart to adopt a constant reminder of his best friend's death?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Knock At The Door

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic, so please be patient with me! I hope you like it!  
> _____________________________________________________________________________________________________

John hadn't expected that anybody would be out in the torrential rain, which pounded the pavement outside, let alone knocking rapidly on the wooden door of 221B Baker Street. The droplets of rain, heavy with water, hit the flat's windows with desperation as he put aside his paper and heaved himself out of his armchair.

"Coming!" He said, as he passed the bare coatrack near the door. It no longer held blue, tasselled scarves and Belstaff coats. John had been without them for three months - not to mention the great man they'd been worn by.

John swung open the flat's door, wondering as he did how his guest had managed to get up there without first getting the attention of Mrs. Hudson downstairs. He certainly had not heard the doorbell ring, nor Mrs. Hudson's twittering calls that 'he had visitors'. When John saw who stood a couple of paces in front of him, all thoughts of doorbells evaporated.

The first thing that had come into his field of vision was a cloth sling, bearing an oval-like mound in it's pouch. A baby. The second thing John saw was that the sling was being worn my a thin, curvy woman who could barely support the weight she balanced on her chest. The third and final thing that John noticed was that this woman was no other than the infamous Irene Adler. Her long, black hair had been shorn into a pixie cut, and she no longer stood with the raw confidence John remembered; she was slightly hunched over the baby she held, as if to protect it. All the confidence of a dominatrix seemed to have fled from her weathered body.

Irene wore an oversized, red macintosh. It was unzipped so that the baby sling showed through, and hung off of Irene's thin shoulders, showing her black jumper and jeans. She held a canvas bag in one hang, limp at her side, and supported the baby with the other. Her face was a painting of sadness and anticipation, as if she was about to get her leg chopped off. She might as well have had been.

She straightened when John pulled open the door, and stepped into the flat without invitation. Instead of her usual smart-looking shoes, she wore soaking wet trainers that left puddles where she'd been standing.

"Where's Sherlock?"

John spluttered, stepping back from Irene and her bundle, and all but tumbled into his armchair. Nobody had said Sherlock's name around John for a very, very long time. He tried not to think of the rising feelings of anguish that enveloped him. Instead, he turned his attention towards Irene, who looked just as confused as John did.  
She didn't know.

"Sherlock's, uh, what I mean to say is..." John swallowed, feeling his adam's apple bob, "Sherlock's been dead. Three months ago."

Irene said nothing, only lowering herself, and the baby, onto the sofa across from John. She looked puzzled, confused, and hurt.

"You're supposed to be dead, too. Not gallivanting around London a baby, for godssake." He gestured to the infant nestled in the sling.

"This is Gwendolyn," Irene retorted weakly, as if to distract herself from the news that had just been flung at her, "I thought... I thought they were wrong, the papers. I thought he was just in hiding."

John shook his head no, unwilling to speak, and they sat in silence for a few moments, before it- No, Gwendolyn, began to whimper. Irene quietly pulled a bottle from the black canvas bag on the floor near her legs, shook it gently, and lifted the child from the sling in order to put it's nipple to Gwendolyn's lips. John almost gasped.

Gwendolyn looked about one year old, perhaps less, with an unruly head of curly, near-black hair. Her eyes were a light greeney-grey, and they stared up at Irene with interest. Her face was chubby, but John could see that it would grow to be long and well-defined. She wore a deep purple onesie that wrinkled as she reached out eagerly for the bottle that was presented to her. 

Irene's baby girl was the striking image of the man John wanted back so dearly.

"Gwendolyn, is she..." John choked on his words. He didn't want the answer. "Does she belong to..."

"Sherlock? Yes." Irene answered as if this was the simplest thing in the world, "In Pakistan. He saved me from execution. I'm surprised he's never told you what happened there. The second part of the night, well... I understand his unwillingness to confess." Irene smiled slyly, and John got a peek of what he remembered as Irene's old self. He felt sick.

“I loved him, you know. He didn't love me back, but he made her,” she gestured to Gwendolyn, “I thought that he should finally get to meet his child, that lazy man, and take some responsibility for once.”

John buried his head into his hands, not caring what Irene thoughts of him. He missed Sherlock – oh god, how he missed Sherlock. Nobody could see it, but everybody sensed it. It showed through in subtle ways; John's limp had returned, he'd started carrying his gun with him everywhere, and he spent most of his time alone, in the flat. On top of that, now he had to learn that Sherlock, his Sherlock, was a father. It hadn't just been John that he'd abandoned, in the end.

"Why are you still here?" John finally burst, when he looked up to see Irene still in the doorway, "To see Sherlock, I get that. But he's not here.”

"I've been on the run for the past eight months," Irene replied, cool as ice, "I've carried a baby across borders, through towns and cities and countries. I've even had to take Gwendolyn to some of my lower-paying jobs. I've had enough of putting her in danger."

"I was going to ask a favour of Mr. Holmes," Irene continued, "but now that I know he's gone, I might have to ask it of you."

John looked up from where he had been staring down at his hands, clenched in his lap. Irene was looking at him with solemn hope.

"Will you adopt Gwendolyn?"


	2. Chapter 2

“You know I can't let you do this, John.”

“Why not, Mycroft? He is your brother, for god's sake! Have some sympathy towards his child!”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, bridging his fingers together in a thoughtful arc that reminded John of Sherlock. They were in his office in the Diogenes Club, the place where John had sat, arguing this exact same way, the night of St. Bart's.

“You know as well as I do, John, that you're jealous of Ms. Adler. In my personal opinion, your motivation to keeping her child is simply because it's one of your last ties to my brother.”

That stung, for sure, but John felt that what Mycroft was saying had truth to it. Gwendolyn looked just like Sherlock, with the eyes, hair, and face of the man he could never see again. John knew this, but what Mycroft didn't understand was John's fundamental need to help the child. The child that waited with her mother back at 221B, waiting for John to get Mycroft's approval. It isn't exactly legal, adopting the baby of a woman who was presumed dead and had been involved in many a scandal. They needed Mycroft's help, if only he could provide it.

“Just write me up some papers, will you?” John glared into Mycroft's calm eyes, "I know that what I'm doing won't bring Sherlock back, but at least I'll never forget him."

"This will break you," was the other man's only comment, as he pulled a packet of files from a drawer in his desk, and moved his pen throughout them, "the child will grow up and move away and you will be broken."

He slid the package towards John, who signed all the lines he needed to without a glance at any of the print.

"Congratulations, Doctor Watson. You're officially the father of Gwendolyn Amelia Watson. I'll have Anthea drop you off at 221B, and please do send Ms. Adler my kindest regards. Good day."

~~**~~

Gwen (John refused to call her by her full name - "It reminds me of my great-aunt!") was crying, again. Ever since Irene had left a few days before, she'd been bawling and squirming and John hadn't the faintest clue what to do. Gwen's mother hadn't left any instructions, any changes of clothes, or any food for the baby. Only the baby sling, the purple onesie, a pack of nappies, and a couple of bottles of milk were left for John's use.

John knew he would need to go to the shops sooner or later, but with Mrs. Hudson out of town for the week-end, he couldn't do much but change Gwen's bum a few times a day, feed her when he thought she was hungry, and read her old entries from John's blog.

"Five beeps or pips. Sherlock knew immediately that it was a warning. There were these secret societies who used to send five orange pips to people as a threat. There was also a picture of an empty flat which Sherlock recognised. It was downstairs. 221C Baker Street! We rushed over there and- Gwen! What is it now?"

The week-end passed in a similar fashion, though Gwen eventually got tired out and fell into a restless sleep on Sunday night. John made a nest of blankets for her on his bed, and curled up around her, playing with her hair and staring down with wonderment at her face. She was Sherlock's daughter, through and through. She was amazing.

Monday morning dawned, still muggy from the two-day rain London had just been subjected to, and brought Mrs. Hudson with it. She was puzzled by the baby in John's arms, and he was forced to explain the recent events to her before understanding dawned on her face. Of course she would be glad to take care of the dear during the day while John worked. She could tell he was exhausted.

Exhausted he was, for when Sarah came in to check on him before midday, he was fast asleep, head buried into his arms at his desk.

"John?" Sarah prompted, jolting the doctor awake, "are you alright? I haven't seen you this tired since Sher- Um, since a while ago."

"S'nothing," John practically fell out of his chair yawning, "Jus' tired, I suppose. Long weekend."

"Well I can't have you working like this, Doctor," Sarah said gently, "Why don't you head home? I'll take care of your patients for today, but I expect you to be chipper tomorrow."

John nodded complacently, and made his way out of the door.


End file.
